I want you to be happy. First and foremost, I truly do. I also want you to hurt. I'm not sure if you will ever escape yourself, but if or when you do, I hope it is healing to you. I hope your friends ask you about how you feel and I hope every question is one you answer honestly. I wish there had been more time for me to know you, but that was never written. I still think your skin is lovely--no amount of scars or acne could ever make you anything less than beautiful to me. I am going to listen to the music you introduced me to and cry at really stupid times, like when Joe's voice cracks at the end of I Wanna Know and all I can hear is you. I still think of how it felt to miss you while you were only a few hours away--torturous, devastating, better than this. You called me your white girl for weeks and wouldn't hear me when I told you I was Thai, a quarter, enough, and I thought "my white girl" meant something, was something. You were incredible, and you are difficult, and I don't know if you were kind or I just loved you, but that doesn't matter, now. You are no longer kind. I still love you. I remember what your lips felt like. I used to lick my own until the memory stuck and I could lay in it, on my back, fingers against my mouth and in my hair, eyes closed and knees open. I am a masochist, and you are a liar, and my entire body pounds with a dull, savage ache. I hope you read Jane Eyre. I hope something finally makes you fucking cry.
"...but whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another than herself." --Kate Chopin, The Awakening.
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